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Destiny was a thought that was never formulated in the minds of the folks who called Scaled Fish Den home. Not a damn person had ever left this town. There were no monuments of famous explorers or politicians, and no one ever tried acheiving anything. Intention was the only escapee and even that was a nasty, but well thought out plan.

Intention figured out early on that there was no purpose for it in Scaled Fish Den. She stopped going to town meetings and eventually was simply regarded as a recluse. The less Intention showed up, the better, was the general thought consensus among the townspeople of Scaled Fish Den.

Intention used her time wisely and plotted out the perfect getaway. In the 13th month on the 23rd day, intention weaved herself into the coarse fiber of a dead mule. In order to sustain the odor, Intention sent her nose on ahead of the rest of her whole. She put it in the tiniest of wagons and sent it with Dumpling, her acquaintance.

Dumpling is an entrepreneurial field mouse that was best friends with anyone willing to pay ridiculous sums of cheese for easy work. The best attribute about hiring Dumpling for any covert operation was his ability to keep quiet… Dumpling is a mute. He had gotten into a scuffle with a locust when he was young and on the booze. The locust pulled out a sharp thistle and with one flutter, took out Dumpling’s tongue. Dumpling regretted that the last words he ever spoke were a garbled series of expletives. Dumpling had a soft spot for Intention. He felt Intention was the only friend he had left… but he was still collecting the cheese.

Firmly woven into the dead mule, Intention played the long game. Every time a buzzard showed up, a little bit of Intention left Scaled Fish Den. Although not highly productive, Intention would hitch rides with flies, beetles and butterflies. The parts of Intention that were considered the most lucky were the ones that were couriered by butterflies. It would always be the scenic route and no turbulence whatsoever. It was referred to as the Angelic Float Express. Conversely, the flies were known simply as the Poo Poo Dumpster Deliveries.

Intention was almost entirely gone by the 15th month, but no plan is flawless. The last shards of Intention were heading towards fruition when a strong wind came up and altered the course of the carnivorous canary courier. The canary took refuge in a windowsill, the windowsill of Doctor Den. Every Den descendant became a doctor since the beginning of the family name. Doctor Den deduced that Intention was in the room and as a precaution, he closed the window.

“So you want to leave us?” the Doctor asked.

“Yes, I am sorry, but yes. I am the most unwarranted citizen of this town and I want to expand my horizons. I am dead here.” Intention was always calm, never flustered or pressured… never rushed.

The canary had no clue what was going on and absolutely no idea that is aiding and abetting Intention. For him it was fight or flight, and he was much more proficient in the latter. The canary bolted for the window and was met with much pane. For about 14 seconds his wings were unflappable. Then he heard the sound of a doorknob turning and without hesitation directed all his efforts towards that sound.

It was Miss Pants and the canary flew right passed her and out the open window in the lobby. Miss Pants informed the Doctor that the Whipplers had canceled and that no more appointments were in the daily log. Doctor Den, knowing Intention had no rightful place in this town, just smiled and thanked Miss Pants. Miss Pants returned to her desk to tidy up for the night and thought “What the fuck was a canary doing in there?” She never dared to ask the doctor anything though, it was not the Scaled Fish Den thing to do.

Now that every part of Intention was outside the city it was time to reassemble. Dumpling had set up a camp and kept his reputation intact as he presented Intention with her nose. Intention high-fived the tiny Dumpling and made its way out into the new frontier. Scaled Fish Den was officially free of Intention.

What if a title was typed on a whim and only served as the improvisational starting point for what followed? Huh, interesting. I will proceed.

Does PETA have scouts in all corners of the literature world? Maybe key words cause their computer alarms to blink and send shrieking alarms that the towns folk mistake as a tornado warning in downtown Pickelton. While the patrons of Pickelton panic, the actual message gets sent to a tiny apartment in uptown Denver, or Cap Hill as the locals refer to it.

Somewhere near the Jelly breakfast joint on 13th street, a young man sits in his window smoking a Marlboro that he bummed from a bum. The cigarette itself was well passed needing to be ashed. You see, Gordon had went into deep thought, back to his childhood on a small Wisconsin farm. The memories of trimming goats for the fair and the crush he had on all three of the Whippling triplets floated in and out of his Coffee induced thought coma.

Gordon forsook his given name of Vibrant Rainbow Catcher somewhere between third grade and getting his ass kicked for every time he strolled to the Whippling farm… which was everyday. The Hunker brothers would take time off from beating each other up, or wrestling pigs, to pound on the love stricken Rainbow boy, as they called him. Gordon felt the bruises and bumps were a small cost to pay to lean on the fence and drink lemonade with Katrina, the eldest of the triplets. Katrina never asked why he smelled like pig poo and Gordon never asked about her tattoo of Kermit the Frog in Merlin’s robe.

Katrina was 42 minutes older than Samantha, and exactly 3 hours and 33 minutes older than Veronica. She knew Vibrant Rainbow Catcher liked her the best, because of her seniority and all. Gordon would hold hands with Katrina on the school bus into town. He would never allow anyone to sit with him, not even Samantha or Veronica… unless Katrina stayed home due to illness or “SHIT!”

The wind had picked up in downtown Denver and blew the hot spark onto Gordon’s leg, jolting him back to present time. He noticed a blinking on his computer and went to check it out. He scrolled through his list of warnings and came across “PETA: Tiny Dancing Mice.” He was less shocked than the inhabitants of Pickelton, who had reached a thankful calm and retreated to their television dens to catch the last 12 minutes of Survivor.

With the push of a button, Gordon looks up this post and gasps. Then he sips on a Mountain Dew and laughs. “Well, holy shit, it all makes sense now!” He was, for the first time in his life, entirely relaxed. “It’s all fiction! The money thing, status, starvation, homelessness, greed!” Even the annoying prick at the DMV made sense to Gordon now.